I only came to the gym to ask my trainer why the hell my form wasn’t improving, but the moment he handed me that strange “mobility bench,” something snapped — literally in reality, but magically in my body. One blink later, I wasn’t standing in front of him… I was on the bench, straddling it, my new gym-trainer body drenched in a warm sheen of sweat, chest rising and falling like I’d been in the middle of a very… intense workout. My hair fell around my face, sticking to my glowing skin as I arched unconsciously, every movement slow, fluid, seductive without even trying.

He froze behind me, confused why “his client Vinay” suddenly looked like the star of his own fitness fantasy reel… and why I was rolling my shoulders back like my body remembered a routine I never learned. I felt muscles shift, tighten, flex — hers, not mine — and the way the sweat trickled down my cleavage made even me lose track of what the original plan was. His eyes never left me. And I couldn’t decide if I wanted him to look away… or keep watching.